


fucking with the mystical technology of creation

by Elendraug



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Cloacalingus, Dirk "devilfucking" Strider, Fisting, M/M, Macrophilia, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Teratophilia, Xeno, pseudo-spiritual shitpost, snek.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6524530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elendraug/pseuds/Elendraug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em><a href="http://classics.mit.edu/Plato/timaeus.html">Each individual</a>—barring inevitable accidents—comes into the world having a fixed span, and the triangles in us are originally framed with power to last for a certain time, beyond which no man prolong his life.</em>
</p><p>  <em>[...] But he who has been earnest in the love of knowledge and of true wisdom, and has exercised his intellect more than any other part of him, must have thoughts immortal and divine, if he attain truth, and in so far as human nature is capable of sharing in immortality, he must altogether be immortal; and since he is ever cherishing the divine power, and has the divinity within him in perfect order, he will be perfectly happy. </em></p><p>Or: Caliborn and Dirk fuck. ...their denizen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fucking with the mystical technology of creation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreakyHumanShit (Maim)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maim/gifts), [sundance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundance/gifts), [stunrunner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stunrunner/gifts).



> **ETA: I consider the fact that they're fisting their denizen to be "crackshippy" I guess but Caliborn/Dirk is not a "crackship" to me, fwiw**
> 
>  
> 
> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJt7gNi3Nr4) [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sp1mVNOB5tg) [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n0P1JsMTWc0) [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbFgxucxVcM) but mostly [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6cEVPyfCkY)
> 
> [a million years ago on the kinkmeme I promised an anon that I'd write Caliborn and Dirk's first time](http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/40628.html?thread=47315892#cmt47315892), but I never did, so here's their last time instead
> 
> this was gonna be my 66th fanfic here but I posted the dave/dirk early, oops
> 
> happy 4/11 (?) I hope this shit goes canon today
> 
> this is THE SINCEREST SHITPOST, please enjoy it, I'm posting this at 11:11 AM, RIP in pieces
> 
> thank u Maim for always illustrating my weird shit
> 
> * * *
> 
> GG: Wait, real sentiment, or ironic sentiment?  
> GG: Or is there no difference?? Am I missing the point here?  
> TT: No, it was genuine.  
> TT: The upper echelons of irony should always include measures of sincerity. And if the satirical practice is executed faithfully it will achieve something bona fide in its own right regardless.  
> TT: Through an intense commitment bordering on religious devotion to the absolutely inane, absurd, or plain fucking stupid, a very different kind of sincerity begins to materialize. One of reverence to the ridiculous. You begin to "mean it," but what exactly it is you mean is never quite what appears on the surface, and is utterly inaccessible to obtuse and literal minds. That you "mean it" then becomes inseparable from the joke, and additional rich strata of humor may be stripped aggressively from this irreconcilable truth.
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
>    
> 

The lair is musty and old, with the weight of ancient timelessness pressing down into their lungs with every breath they take. It’s not the first time they’ve been there; they’ve both walked the same paths in their respective sessions, but always alone until now as they approach him jointly with sure steps and laced fingers.

  
[ ](http://freakyhumanshit.tumblr.com/post/131722913870/he-very-rarely-appears-in-game-sessions-and-is)  


Yaldabaoth is a beaming beacon of intensity, as large as a theater screen, as large as a lighthouse. He regards them solemnly as they near, treading forward with reverence.

“And so you’ve returned,” he bellows, in a voice that speaks nothing close to English, nothing close to any human or alien language. His words are a feeling, a deep vibrating bass that thrums through their ribcages like the universe’s most powerful speakers, as if the dust and stale air in the cave had emanated from a fog machine in some bizarre otherworldly snake club. “For what purpose do you seek an audience?”

It’s Dirk who speaks first, his words practiced and measured. “We intend to set things right.”

“How is it, then, that you propose to such a thing, Prince?” he asks.

Dirk looks to Caliborn, steadfast at his side, then back to the demiurge. “I choose the path of the Martyr.”

“A noble choice, fitting of one from an inert session such as your own.” Yaldabaoth shifts his weight and the cave trembles. Every pebble seems attuned to his bulk, and stalactites quiver far above their heads. Dirk wonders how quickly they’d die if they were impaled here. “This path demands sacrifice, yet you choose it with nonchalance.”

“Someone’s gotta do it,” Dirk says. “May as well be me.”

“There’s no one else we can trust,” Caliborn adds, and he means it. Whether he’s referring to Dirk or his denizen isn’t clarified, and the moment passes.

“A Martyr opposes a Conqueror.” The words hang in the room, as heavy as glass for the long moment until Caliborn nods his acknowledgement.

“That’s me.”

“And what of this path is so appealing to one such as yourself?”

He’s seen the screens, indefinite and endless in the wasteland of colours and mayhem, stacked and scattered and awaiting his keys’ access. He’s seen the superfluous playthroughs, the lost data, the squandered sessions that serve little use unless they’re categorized by someone who knows better—someone who’s seen it all, who knows how to index the information and render it purposeful. Someone who meticulously overturned every rock on the face of the planet, and fitted every lock with a key, exhaustively. Someone who knows the solution is not to stagnate in the wake of failure.

Caliborn shrugs. “Like he said. We have to get it right, as a team.”

There’s a rumbling in the room that descends from the ceiling. The two players stay close to each others’ side, needy for shelter and sympathy, deprived of it in their pre-game existence. Yaldabaoth speaks again.

“Were in not for your shared denizen, and your linked aspects, such a circumstance would never come to pass.” He shifts in the space like a tectonic plate and they’re moved for his efforts, suddenly unsteady on their feet. “But as is the case, I am the arbiter of your fates, entrusted by your own insistence. Although you must bear in mind, with or without my assistance, your decisions are ultimately your own, and they will affect every iteration of yourselves.”

Caliborn looks to Dirk. There are the beginnings of lines at the corners of his eyes, from a lifetime of malnourishment and stress, but for better or worse, Caliborn’s set his standard for human perfection by the qualities Dirk has to offer. He doesn’t fixate on his fatigue, and for that, Dirk’s grateful. In turn, Dirk prioritizes the commitment to excellence in Caliborn’s gaze, and has nothing negative to say for his sunken sockets or cadaverous cheekbones. Post god tier ascension, they’re both the living dead.

“We’re trapped, and you know that,” Caliborn asserts. “We have to win if we’re ever going to leave. I’m committed to making that happen.”

“Neither of these paths will be simple, and you will both submit yourselves to tremendous suffering.” Yaldabaoth’s presence shakes the space, to the point that the walls seem suspect and a cave-in seems imminent. For now, the rock holds. “Before you proceed, I am obligated to inform you of the burdens you will bear.”

Dirk replies first. “Lay it on us. We can handle it.”

“Prince of Heart,” he begins, “You will surrender your mind to the will of the world. Your very identity will be further fractured into infinitesimal splinters, distributed through the fabric of space-time. You will be the cause of all that has gone astray, in the perception of others, and every instance of your life will be ultimately responsible for threading the fibers back to solidarity. You will die, many times over, and you will experience it with heightened knowledge of your fault. There will be no one to liberate you. There will be no chance for atonement. You will set the gears in motion and witness the march of time as you twist yourself to death.”

“Sounds like the average day.” Dirk tries to laugh. He finds himself faltering.

“You will be known as a deceiver, a manipulator; one who will sacrifice everything to justify his actions. Your loved ones will abandon your selves. You will work tirelessly to slot the pieces in place and they will resent you for your labor. They will deny you your personhood. You will be held accountable for holding existential forces in balance. There is no option but focus.”

Without pausing, and before Dirk can speak again, Yaldabaoth shifts just enough that his intensity is noticeably directed toward his cherub supplicant.

“Lord of Time.”

“Yeah?”

“You, in turn, were never meant to play such a game. Paradox space has punished you for your hubris with a dead session, yet you have surpassed all expectations. Thusly, is now upon you to shoulder this circumstance. As a Conqueror, the success of the multiverse rests too with you, and its pains are those that you will endure.”

Dirk squeezes Caliborn’s hand. Caliborn squeezes back.

“Your body will be pushed beyond its limits. Your form will fuse with the very essence of your aspect. Your physicality will house a power beyond what your organic brain can conceive or comprehend, to such excess that you will wield it to recapture a monumental loss throughout all of existence. You will upend your insides and expel energy. You will be known as a devil. You will be an abomination. All those who have ever lived, and many more who have perished, will curse your name and call for your execution. At the end of all things, forty-eight of those who have passed before you will rend you apart.”

Caliborn keeps his head elevated, struggling to radiate confidence. “What’s a god to a mob?”

“The two of you dance dangerously close to behavior one would consider flippant.” 

“I am scared not to exist.” Dirk closes his eyes for a brief moment at the welling guilt from reuse of the words. “Aren’t you?”

“You will do far more than simply exist. Of that much, I can assure you.”

Dirk wipes at his left eye, beneath the edge of his shades. “Yeah? Hell of a deal to strike. Not that I’m unwilling.”

“By your destruction of yourself, you will bring about your own creation. This is the nature of our knowledge. The Lord of Time would understand, if he truly comprehends all he boasts to have seen.”

There’s a flash of a migraine that flickers in Caliborn’s skull, and the faintest impression of dirt in his nostrils, blood in his mouth, debris in the atmosphere, and the gentlest arms around him. The memory is gone before he can articulate anything, and Dirk’s still speaking to Yaldabaoth and it distracts his attempt to retrieve the thought before it’s lost. 

“So we’re back to Sagan?” Dirk sighs, smirking to himself. “If we want make some apple juice from a Scratch, we gotta invent the universe. If you’re about to inform me that an alien’s sending me four dimensional math, tell me something I don’t know.”

Yaldabaoth ignores the jokes and continues speaking. “You will be isolated, yet consolidated. You will find yourself in an edgeless ocean of void. You cannot reach the end, yet you must traverse this space, systematically, and achieve your goal. All of creation will be at your mercy and at your throat.”

There’s a moment of silence. Dirk chews at the inside of his cheek.

“Is there something else we need to do?” he asks, uncertain. “To seal the deal?”

“As you would ask paradox space to submit to your will, and as you have demonstrated a desire to submit to the needs of your own creation myth, so too must you submit to one another.”

Light flares in the room as Yaldabaoth speaks, so brightly that Dirk squints, even behind his shades. Caliborn’s eyes remain open, unfazed; he’s built to navigate galaxies with his vision.

“Like.” Caliborn looks at Dirk, sidelong, and lifts what would be his eyebrow, if he had hair. “Sexually?”

“If you so choose. The intent is of importance. One who would seek to take ownership of the universe must preemptively yield to the one who would seek to sacrifice himself for it.”

Dirk looks to Caliborn, his eyelids lowered, so that he’s likely looking at the floor more than at his partner.

“Take note that should this deal be struck, neither of you will return. It shall be up to your alternate selves to shoulder this in your stead, although with your widespread perception, you will be aware of the consequences of your actions.”

“Does this happen often?” Dirk asks, sardonic. “Do you ask lots of Sburb players to fuck in front of you, for your entertainment?”

Yaldabaoth’s presence flickers like a fire spread across an oil spill, burning on the ocean’s surface. Dirk feels very small.

“I am the rarest denizen of all. There are no others who have ever sought such a specific Choice as yours, nor will there ever be again.”

Dirk raises his head to meet Yaldabaoth’s blinding brightness. “So you’re saying this is fate?”

The room is cacophonous with the crackling of flames and unintelligible, bestial groans. No answer comes.

Caliborn traces the tip of a claw gently along Dirk’s palm, over his glove. “I’m game if you are.”

It’s another few moments before Dirk tears his gaze away from the intense glare of Yaldabaoth’s visage. His eyes adjust when his gaze is fixed on Caliborn’s face, instead, and the edge of his mouth curls into a half-smile before he can even think to dampen the response. There’s no reason to, at this point. They’ve reached the end. Or maybe the beginning? It’s some dumb shit, no matter how he chooses to look at it, but really fucking critical shit nonetheless.

Caliborn lifts a hand to cup Dirk’s jaw, his claws awfully close to his eyes even with the shades, but he’s careful not to hurt him. Dirk in turn brings his hand up to slide up along Caliborn’s arm, just inside his short sleeved shirt, to rub his thumb into the muscle of his tricep.

Dirk isn’t much taller than Caliborn, but it’s just enough of a difference for it to matter when he closes the distance between their faces.

“Are you okay?” Dirk asks, under his breath.

Caliborn nods, and on his exhale, his breath from his outfacing nostrils fogs up Dirk’s shades. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“All right.”

Dirk leans in first, his lips far softer and more accommodating than Caliborn’s skeletal skin, which is pulled taut across his teeth but still familiar and inviting in Dirk’s estimation. Caliborn drapes both arms over Dirk’s shoulders and runs his fingers into the hair at the nape of Dirk’s neck. Dirk slides his arms around Caliborn’s waist, to keep his hands pressed to the small of his back. 

With their eyes closed, they can still see the radiance of their denizen’s glow through their eyelids. Caliborn thinks of stepping onto the roof to bask in the remains of a dying sun, and takes a step forward with a foot now freed of his chains until his thigh is nudged between Dirk’s legs. Dirk takes his cue, and slides his hands down until he’s gripping Caliborn’s ass, his own foot braced solidly against the ground. He encourages Caliborn to slot against him, and as this is hardly the first time they’ve done this, Caliborn presses himself against Dirk’s thigh, too. 

The more they get into it, the easier it is not to fixate on the presence of their denizen. Dirk kisses him with soft, full lips that Caliborn spent days lusting over, combing through the same Trollian footage of the lead up to the Sburb Alpha session, imagining that his mouth was on his face, on his throat, between his legs. Caliborn darts his tongue out, its forked tip flicking over Dirk’s skin to tease and ideally entice him; for his efforts, he has a further heightened awareness of Dirk’s smell, and all the salt and pheromones that come with mammalian sweat.

Caliborn pulls away and ducks his head to Dirk’s shoulder. He competes with the hood of his god tier outfit in order to access his neck, but once he’s pushed the fabric out of the way, he’s free to run his tongue over the tendons in Dirk’s neck and taste his skin fully.

“I need you,” he says, earnestly. “I’ve always needed you.”

Dirk turns his head to kiss at Caliborn’s temple. “You’ve always had me.”

Caliborn laughs, relieved, his cheekbone resting on Dirk’s shoulder. “Our denizen isn’t as wise as he thinks, if he thinks I wouldn’t let you have _me_.”

“Is that what you want?” Dirk asks. “I can make that happen.”

Caliborn slips his arms around Dirk’s torso, then runs his hands down to mirror Dirk’s own actions and grope at his ass. Dirk’s called these his poofy asshole pants, but he has yet to change out of them. Caliborn suspects that Dirk likes them more than he’s willing to admit. He looks regal. The fabric does little to impede Caliborn’s grasping hands, and Dirk lets out a short huff of breath and hauls Caliborn towards him until they can’t be closer. Not with their clothes on, anyway.

“Well, then.” Caliborn steps back enough to put scant distance between them, and takes Dirk’s hand in his own. His tongue flicks out in the same nervous way that Dirk might lick his lips. “Come at me, bro.”

Dirk’s giddy, but still with performance anxiety pricking at the base of his skull every time he re-notices the firelit glow of the cavern. He keeps his eyes on Caliborn, on the face of the friend he’d known online since he first was gifted a chat client, the one whom he’d helped to save from premeditated annihilation, and who’d saved him from imperial and cosmic danger, in return. It’s strange to put a face to the chat handle, to put a name to the face, when for so long it was too risky or rulebreaking to entrust him with three syllables. Which three syllables were most life-changing to reveal, he thinks, is up for debate.

Caliborn eases himself down onto the ground and tugs at Dirk’s hand to indicate he should do the same. Dirk is silhouetted by Yaldabaoth’s overbearing brightness, his blond hair illuminated like Lucifer, bringing the sun with himself. The bulk of their denizen’s body is enough for Caliborn to already be everted within his pants, his pulse thrumming in some measure of pseudo-spiritual attunement to the heavy noises that emanate from Yaldabaoth’s form. In the past he’s explained what little he knows to Dirk, but Caliborn is admittedly not especially familiar with his own species, barred access to the knowledge his sister kept coveted on the other side of his bedroom, which in the end had been streaked through with blue blood so frequently he could only discern so much from its ancient pages. On some primal level, however, he knows that this is a scene that should be arousing to him—because it is.

Dirk kneels between Caliborn’s legs and dips down to kiss him, until Caliborn’s head is resting against the stone and Dirk’s chest is flush to his, his heartbeat rapid, too. The moment Dirk is within reach, Caliborn lifts his hips up to wrap his legs around Dirk’s waist and draw him in, closer. Dirk kisses him like he’d wanted to for years, pent-up in a separate universe, staring at his ceiling with his hand fisted inside his summer sweat-soaked boxers, wondering if “undyingUmbrage” could see him from wherever he was at. They’ve had their chances to go nuts on each other, and they've done so, but it never seems to be enough, and they’re always left craving a way to make up for lost time separated by aeons on a drowned then decomposing planet.

“I was so lonely, Dirk,” Caliborn tells him, as though he didn’t know it so well, so personally, so intimately. “I don’t know who I’d be without you.”

“You had my awesome puppet to keep you company,” Dirk notes, smiling. “Didn’t you? If you’d just told me you wanted me to pass him along, he could’ve been yours long before he got so tattered.”

Dirk’s hard, and Caliborn can feel him pushing against his crotch, eager for pressure and contact. Caliborn spreads his legs wide and lets Dirk thrust against him, over top their clothing, with his own hips lifting to meet Dirk’s movements as often as he can manage. The friction’s slightly too much, and after another minute, Dirk rolls off him and onto his own back. He takes off his shades and sets them on the ground a safe distance away, then slides down his god tier pajama pants and exposes himself to the warm air.

“Get on top of me,” he urges. 

“Yeah,” Caliborn agrees, and he’s on him in an instant, hurriedly unclipping his suspenders and shoving his own pants down, over his organic leg and over his glimmering golden prosthesis, and finally off until he can seat himself atop Dirk. Caliborn rocks against him, with Dirk’s erection nudging at the juncture of [Caliborn’s hemipenes as they protrude from his cloaca](http://freakyhumanshit.tumblr.com/post/116620825475/unified-theory-of-cherub-junk-the-lifes-work-of). It’s satisfying, but it’s too dry to go very quickly.

Caliborn leans over him and kisses him again, with one hand braced against the floor and the other trailing his fingers through Dirk’s hair, to cradle the side of his face. Dirk puts his arms around Caliborn’s back to hold him near, one keeping Caliborn’s red reaper hood firmly pressed down to his back and far away from obscuring his facial features, and his other on his lower back, over his cape, his arm rising and falling with every movement Caliborn makes to grind against him. Their faces are flushed with the same blood, the same want; Caliborn keeps his eyes half-lidded to memorize the sight of Dirk Strider’s face, in person, while Dirk allows his eyes to fall closed and relaxed, as if he had ever slept in his life.

[ ](http://freakyhumanshit.tumblr.com/post/142589815805/i-mean-what-with-heart-and-time-being-such)

Dirk lifts his head up to continue to kiss Caliborn, his lips pressed tightly to Caliborn’s teeth, breathing in Caliborn’s exhalations, which are scarcely above room temperature. He rolls his hips upward, straining, needy, but Caliborn doesn’t generate enough wetness to make it easy. They’re long past the point of the bullshit theatrical façades they’d hidden behind, and with Yaldabaoth looming above them, it’s no time for that kind of song and dance. Dirk kisses Caliborn’s jaw and just plain asks.

“Do you want me to eat you out?”

“ _God_ , yeah, would you?”

Dirk nods, and Caliborn kisses him a few more times for good measure before turning around. He sits up enough to pull his god tier attire off, entirely, and crumples it into a wad of cloth to pass back to Dirk to pillow his head. Dirk accepts it, and watches as Caliborn reconfigures his suspenders over his bare shoulders, watches the bright lime green break up the shadows that Yaldabaoth’s light casts in high contrast on Caliborn’s lithe musculature. Dirk reaches to run his palms over the backs of Caliborn’s thighs, up to his ass and hips. He waits with his tongue out until Caliborn scoots back enough for him to make contact and lick across his cloaca, to taste the musky, earthy _whatever_ that lingers on his tongue when Caliborn settles back against his face.

Caliborn moans, shifting his hips to angle himself in a way that makes it easy for Dirk to slip one of his hemipenes into his mouth. He suckles at it, its texture similar to sucking on the fleshy interior of his cheek. Dirk sighs his relief and contentment, glad to be giving Caliborn pleasure with his lips and tongue, glad to be making anyone feel good after, in his own estimation, spending far too long making everyone around him goddamned miserable every time he opened his mouth. 

Dirk moans, too, when Caliborn gets his three-fingered grip around his cock and guides it towards his tongue, curled long and wet along the length of him, the forked tips occasionally pulling back to flutter at the head of his dick, to ease across his glans and slip inside the edge of his foreskin. Caliborn can’t suck on him, not easily, but he makes up for it and then some by lowering his head to Dirk’s inner thigh and lapping his tongue beneath his balls and down to circle at his asshole. Caliborn considers all of Dirk’s body to be worth showering with affection, to be worth tending to, and the urgency is enough to get Dirk to seal his mouth over Caliborn’s cloaca and shove his tongue into him.

For a moment, Caliborn is too distracted to continue, and pulls his tongue away from Dirk’s cock to pant shallowly and let out a groan that sends heat spiking through the pit of Dirk’s stomach. He sucks harder, running his tongue under Caliborn’s cloacal flap, licking inside him, before removing his mouth with a wet pop and swiftly reattaching his lips to one of Caliborn’s hemipenes. He alternates swirling circular strokes with quick and urgent flicking with the tip of his tongue, and can feel the fleshiness of it swell in his mouth, pulsing as Caliborn pushes his hips towards Dirk’s chin. Desperate for something to keep himself occupied, Caliborn rests his head on Dirk’s thigh again and licks at his ass, his senses full of the smell of Dirk’s skin and sweat.

Caliborn looks up for a moment to see Yaldabaoth, massive and magnificent, his scales shimmering in his own self-generated light. There’s a part of him in the deepest recesses of his awareness that seeks this exact circumstance, that aches to be universal and serpentine, entwined and writhing across the emptiness, tangled up in a turbulent mating ritual that would leave him dominated by someone who’d dedicated himself to chasing him down, called to pursue the cause no matter how much space had separated them. It’s with this in mind that Caliborn pushes himself backwards onto Dirk’s tongue, thrusting his hips to Dirk’s lips, and shakily crying out as he hits his orgasm and comes in Dirk’s mouth.

Breathless, he grips tightly to Dirk’s narrow hips, hypersensitive, his chest bursting with desires he never thought he’d find fulfilled.

Dirk strokes along Caliborn’s right calf, his fingertips trailing up from refashioned gold (instead of the steel he constructed, years ago) to the threshold just below his knee, where synthetic meets organic. He turns his head and kisses the metal of Caliborn’s leg, and his lips leave a mark on the surface, one that he knows will buff away easily. To free him, he would’ve given anything, paid any price, and the promise is held in this moment; he’s in the lair of a deity, proving that he’d stay with this alien, this artist, this asshole who’s been everything to him, up until the moment of oblivion.

“Do you think he’s ever gotten laid?” Caliborn asks, idly jerking Dirk’s dick.

“I… have no idea,” Dirk admits. “You wanna ask him?”

Caliborn hides his face in Dirk’s thigh. “He’s fucking _hot_ , Dirk.”

Dirk grins up at the ceiling of the cave, then props himself up to kiss Caliborn’s thigh. “All the more reason to go ask him.”

Without looking back—but with a solid pat to Dirk’s knee—Caliborn gets up to his feet before his legs are finished trembling. He catches himself just fine, and strides confidently towards Yaldabaoth, who he’s sure has heard everything they were saying, if not everything they were thinking. His suspenders dangle over his shoulders, smacking into his hips as he walks, which Dirk can admire with a fondness he reserves for few others. He’s naked except for the suspenders and one shoe. Fucking incredible. 

“Hey!” Caliborn shouts, although he’s well aware their denizen can hear speech at a standard decibel level. “You wanna get in on this?”

Yaldabaoth is silent. Not only does all sound from his own form cease, but the entire cave goes absolutely quiet. There’s no wind, no breath, nothing. Dirk is reminded of how it felt to be traveling through the Furthest Ring, or in the void between fenestrated planes. Somehow, the cave feels less terrifying, but maybe it’s that he’s attuned to the presence here on some fundamental level.

“What is it you seek?” Yaldabaoth asks.

Caliborn shrugs, his hands raised in a noncommittal gesture. “Aren’t you bored out here?”

“For a player of the divine game to request such an intimate audience is utterly unprecedented,” he continues, his otherworldly voice channelled through the cavern in perfect acoustic clarity. “One normally would not dare to initiate such contact.”

Caliborn crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not saying you have to, dude. It’s just an option, if you’re sick of being lonely like we are!”

Dirk props himself up on his elbows to watch this exchange, baffled but highly amused. He can’t stop the mirthful—or shit-eating—expression that he’s sure is on his face. 

“We’re all gonna die, aren’t we?” Dirk says. “Can’t we consider this whole thing to be a _YOLO-boner_?”

Although his non-expression is near inscrutable, there’s enough hesitance and uncertainty in Yaldabaoth’s presence that Dirk can tell that they’re onto something. Dirk pats the spot on the ground beside him and wags his eyebrows.

Caliborn continues the pitch. “If we’re about to see paradox space shit itself, don’t you want to accomplish _something_ before it’s all over?”

There’s another long beat.

“You are too small,” Yaldabaoth notes.

“If you’d want us otherwise, that’s your loss, bro.” Dirk lifts his hand near his face and scrutinizes his fingernails. He makes what he hopes is eye contact with Yaldabaoth, and curls his fingers into as slender a fist as he can manage, then thrusts his arm upward. It’s a lewd gesture.

“Yeah!” Caliborn echoes. “If that’s all that’s stopping you, at least give us a chance.”

“We’ve proven ourselves thus far, if you ask me, but we’re not gonna push the issue, y’know? Your call.”

There’s a rush of wind in their surroundings that could very well be a gigantic sigh, on a scale neither has ever heard before. Dirk wonders for a brief moment if they pushed their luck, if they were too arrogant or somehow upset their denizen, but before he can verbalize the thought to Caliborn, the King of Monsters has kicked up dust within the cave as he rearranges his colossal scales. Caliborn stands still, exactly where he began the conversation, and stares up at Yaldabaoth, waiting for some kind of affirmation.

When he suddenly finds himself with a truly massive cloacal flap engulfing his field of vision, he realizes he didn’t fuck this one up, after all.

“You may proceed,” Yaldabaoth informs them.

Dirk finally gets to his feet, and takes his gloves off as he walks to join Caliborn. He pulls his god tier top and his cape off, steps out of his pants and tights, and lets them all fall to the floor. Like his boyfriend, he makes sure to keep his shoes on. There’s fuckin’ rocks in here.

“I’m glad you said yes,” Caliborn calls to him, without reason to yell, except maybe his own excitement level. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to be with anyone who was like me.” He glances to Dirk, who shrugs helplessly, and then adds, “A snake person, I mean.”

“My history is not yours to know,” Yaldabaoth bellows. “But I can find no reason not to allow this.”

Dirk gently leans his hand on Yaldabaoth’s bulk. “You good up there?”

“Some would beg to differ, with regard to my creation, but I perceive my works and my status as that one would consider good.”

“We like you too,” Caliborn says, beaming.

“Even if this shit is gonna kill us.” Dirk laughs, not sure what else to do. It’s gallows humor, sure, but what other options does he have at this point? “You win some, you lose some, right?”

“We’re gonna win,” Caliborn insists.

“It is my intent to see to it that you are both successful.” 

There’s a guttural, scraping, groaning sound that's abrasive to Dirk’s ears, but has Caliborn’s face flushed harder than Dirk’s ever seen him. It’s hot to watch, in his opinion, which is the only one that matters at this point. He has no idea what his other friends would say, and at this tail end of the path, with a deteriorating timeline telomere, how can he spare the energy to worry about it?

He can’t go back, and he wouldn’t.

Dirk watches as Caliborn pets his hand along the edge of Yaldabaoth’s cloacal flap with a long, sweeping gesture involving nearly his entire range of motion. It reminds him of the first time he and Caliborn had sex, when they’d both spent an awful lot of time attempting to debug their own mistakes preemptively, before making them. 

“Am I doing this right?” he calls up.

“Yes.”

The noise from their denizen is less booming, this time, and more of a hiss, with heavy, trailing emphasis on the end of the ‘yes.’ Dirk can’t help but look between Caliborn’s legs and sees that he’s ridiculously aroused, flushed and everted, despite already having come once. He knows Caliborn can go twice, typically, but seeing him this worked up is enough for Dirk to get his hand around his own dick again and start touching himself as he watches the scene.

Without further convoluted anything, Caliborn lowers his head to Yaldabaoth’s gigantic body and does his best to lick along his scales, at the spot where his entrance becomes visible. It seems like it’s far too little stimulation, and Dirk watches for another few minutes as Caliborn extends his tongue as far as it can go, before he realizes he’d better get in there and help.

Dirk rifles through his sylladex and procures every bottle of lubricant he’s ever alchemized. It seems unlikely that an immortal snake god would have some kind of adverse reaction to much of anything, short of cataclysm, but Dirk asks anyway.

“Yaldabaoth, do you have any known allergies?”

“No, human, I do not.”

Dirk wonders if the rumbling in the cave is laughter. He hopes it is.

He smiles, and picks up a bottle of something he jacked off with once and never used again—meaning, a bottle that’s nearly full—and hands it to Caliborn, who needs no explanation before upending the entirety of its contents onto his hands and forearms. Dirk thinks it looks an awful lot like applying sunscreen, but then, he’s never had cause to fist a deity before.

He wonders if there was some other path in his life he could’ve taken that wouldn’t land him, inevitably, in a position like this. He suspects there probably wasn’t. This shit seems par for the course.

Caliborn slides his hands over the entrance to Yaldabaoth’s cloaca, like he’s struggling to smooth out sheets while making a bed—not that Dirk ever made his. His movements are far more gentle than Dirk would’ve thought, but then, maybe he was expecting different standards based on size alone. Caliborn’s the one who knows what to do with this equipment. Dirk picks another bottle of lubricant that’s sufficient, but that he didn’t like enough to personally consume, and coats it over his own hands and arms while watching Caliborn set the pace for how to correctly handle titanic snake junk.

There’s a hesitance to Caliborn’s movements, a reverence, and it’s difficult for him to focus on delivering an enjoyable experience to a serpent called king. He feels tiny, inadequate, aware on some level that he should be stretching across the space-time continuum, but still confined to a limited physical mass for which he hasn’t the faintest clue how to expand access. Despite being unable to transform into anything, he'll do a fucking fantastic job anyway; his body has never stopped him before. Not while he could help it.

He slides his hands inside Yaldabaoth and runs his palms along one hemipenis, stroking and coaxing at his denizen until the organ everts fully.

“I think we’re only gonna manage one,” Caliborn announces, although whether it’s to Yaldabaoth, Dirk, or both of them is unclear. He gets his arms around it, using the full grip of his arms to hold him against his chest, and sliding his arms up and down as best as he can.

Dirk pours another bottle of lube onto his left palm. He doesn’t know how he wound up with so many half-finished spares in his sylladex, but hey, good riddance. At least they’re going to a good cause. Besides, there’s never been a point in hoarding items until the final moment and not using them even then. What’s there to save it for?

Caliborn catches his eye, concerned. “You’re keeping one for us, right?”

For a split second, Dirk intends to gesture to his sylladex, but realizes there’s no way to indicate such an intangible, abstract space in a way that he’s satisfied with. Instead, he nods. “Yeah. I kept [the one you like](https://www.gunoil.com/).”

Caliborn grins. It’s endearing, maybe even more so because he’s struggling with such commitment to jack off a gargantuan snake-monster dick.

With dripping hands, Dirk walks over to stand beside Caliborn, and plunges both of his arms elbow-deep into Yaldabaoth’s vent.

The groaning gets louder, deeper, like listening to the earth itself deciding whether or not it wants to orgasm. The ground shakes as Yaldabaoth moves his weight slightly, which is still extremely perceptible for small beings in a towering space. Dirk feels successful; he’s fairly sure that there have not been many other Sburb players who’ve offered sexual favors to their denizens, and if they were any others, he thinks that maybe they were alternate hims to begin with. He’s impressed that Caliborn had the balls to ask, despite Caliborn not having any external testicles.

Caliborn allows himself to get really into it, running his tongue up along the girth of the hemipenis he’s so urgently trying to stimulate. A significant amount of his fantasizing is spent thinking about how he would feel on the receiving end of such attention, being massive and being with someone massive at the ends of existence. Dirk, though, has continuously made him feel valid and worthy, and helped him to feel liberated within his own body, for a multitude of reasons. If he never makes it to his mating form, so what? Dirk’s the one he’s mating with, and Dirk isn’t nearly so large.

In Caliborn’s opinion, Yaldabaoth is the one who should feel honored to be hooking up with _them_. It’s _their_ relationship they’ve granted him access to, and they're awesome and badass.

Dirk plants his feet solidly and uses the leverage to drive his fists as deep as he can go, rocking his entire body to continue the motion. Was this what he spent years of his life training for, on the roof, getting fucking sunburnt and having his ass handed to him by robots? There’s something circuitous, if circle-jerky, about the scenario. He should’ve known the moment he started instant messaging a skeletal snake-alien that this would be the end result.

Caliborn uses his entire arm to slide through the shallow groove in Yaldabaoth’s hemipenis, keeps his tongue licking across him. Dirk thinks it’s weird to see the length of his tongue seem so short, but the scale here is greater than they’re typically dealing with. It’s gratifying to know that if his dong was the girth of a tree trunk, Caliborn would still make a valiant attempt to give him head. What a fucking trooper.

Whatever the two of them have been doing is evidently enough, because the cave is once again filled with the echoing ethereal groans that Dirk had once associated with mystical game abstractions, but will from now on, for the short remainder of his life, be associating with what is apparently his denizen’s glowy o-face. Dirk keeps his arms moving, watching as Caliborn continues laving his tongue across Yaldabaoth until he starts to ejaculate, and then wisely steps back and well out of the way.

When the convulsing is over and there’s no longer pressure on his limbs, Dirk retrieves his arms from Yaldabaoth’s cloaca. Without thinking about it, he licks at his hands. Hm.

To his right, Caliborn is also licking come and whatever else off his claws. Dirk thinks that they were probably meant to be together, at the end of the day.

Dirk pats the scale beneath Yaldabaoth’s vent, twice, in a way he hopes is reassuring. Good job, buddy, applause all around, that sort of shit. He turns to Caliborn and reaches out to take his hands in his own. They’re both sticky and gross, and both still majorly turned on. He digs it.

With the stench of sex hovering in their surroundings, and Yaldabaoth’s ragged breathing vibrating the air around them, Dirk looks into Caliborn’s eyes and speaks solemnly.

“I will face god, and fuck you backwards in hell.”

“Fuck me forwards,” Caliborn requests. “I want to see your face.”

“All right.”

Dirk gets back onto the floor, in a heaped and then smoothed out pile of their discarded clothing, like they’re building some kind of stupid nest, or the foundation for a fort constructed of magical pajamas. He offers his hand to Caliborn as Caliborn straddles his hips, both of them aroused and ready to go. 

Dirk kisses Caliborn’s knuckles. They kind of stink. 

He licks them.

“I have been in love with you for so fucking long,” Caliborn sighs.

“Dude, same. You’re the best.” He passes him the lubricant they reserved for Caliborn’s use, and Dirk watches as Caliborn pours a ton of it onto his fingers and slathers it on Dirk’s dick, then up inside himself. Typically Dirk takes care of it, because claws, but Caliborn’s eager enough that he’s stopped worrying as much. Besides, it’s not like they’re hoarding the lube for later. This is it.

Caliborn grabs for his cape and puts it back on, to provide both of them with some semblance of added warmth, and because he feels hardcore when he wears it. He grabs Dirk’s erection and holds him in place as he lowers himself onto Dirk’s dick, pushing the head past his hemipenes and up inside his cloaca. Nothing human was meant to go here; Caliborn doesn’t care, and lets out a breathy, deeply satisfied series of gasps as he acclimates to the feeling of fullness from being fucked. He clenches around Dirk, rhythmically, and rocks forward to frot his hemipenes on Dirk’s slickly-lubed stomach. 

The clasps of his suspenders make little clinking noises as he rolls his hips; he fiddles with the metal for a moment before moving both his hands to rest on Dirk’s chest, to help himself rock harder.

Dirk is breathless, happy, and laughs as he tilts his head back onto the makeshift clothing-pillow while Caliborn rides him. “God, you feel so good. I fucking love you.”

“I love fucking you,” Caliborn repeats back, slightly twisting the words. He grins toothily down at his boyfriend. “Fuck me hard, Dirk.”

[“Let’s never stop fucking.”](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/40585720/Archive/Cheerfulbear_Play_Me/page1_files/muppetbabyporn2.jpg)

For the briefest instant, Dirk wonders if Yaldabaoth is going to tell them to stop, that this has suddenly gotten too hot, but very little short of universal apocalypse would convince him to blue balls himself at this point. Or if Caliborn mentioned microwaves, which was the obvious go-to for a safe word, but he’s pretty confident that Caliborn’s on board for this one.

On that note, Caliborn reaches down to rub at his hemipenes as he fucks himself onto Dirk’s dick. Dirk keeps one of his hands on the ground, fisted in a tangle of clothing, and [lifts the other to splay his fingertips across Caliborn’s slender hip](http://freakyhumanshit.tumblr.com/post/116362960715/prettyboy-ninja-stud), reassuring him of… something. That he’s there. Yeah. That sounds right.

Caliborn moans in a way that Dirk hasn’t heard this long or this loud since he was drawing him stupid fluff fetish shit that’d left them both masturbating furiously as soon as Caliborn had disconnected from the conversation. He’d saved the fuck out of that log, and accessed it to the point that Hal started to tease him about it. But then, Hal had had his own secret crush, too, when it all came out in the wash.

Caliborn comes for a second time, dribbling semen that’s thicker than anything Dirk’s ever produced, less runny, and Dirk can feel his cloaca clenching around his cock as he rides out his orgasm.

“Holy shit,” Caliborn gasps, articulately. “Fucking goddamn.”

“You all right?” Dirk asks.

“Don’t you dare take your dick out of me,” Caliborn sighs. “Fuck.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Dirk squeezes at Caliborn’s hip. “Unless you wanna roll over.”

Caliborn lowers himself to press close to Dirk’s chest, to kiss his lips and his face, and grabs his shoulders so he can do something approximating a crocodilian death roll, but nerdier, in the dirt, without the violence. Dirk laughs again, just goddamned on cloud… eleven, and situates himself so he can resume thrusting. He should be exhausted, but ever since ascending to god tier, he’s able to exert himself in a lot of new directions. This one’s the most fun, by far.

Dirk hefts Caliborn’s legs over his arms, holding onto his knees and driving into him, each thrust earning a pleased grunt from Caliborn. Caliborn’s shoe falls off, and he takes the opportunity to rub at Dirk’s back with his toes. His golden leg smacks into Dirk’s ribs, and the metal is such a welcome moment of coolness on his flushed skin that Dirk can’t even complain.

Caliborn’s suspenders dig into his back as Dirk fucks him into the ground, but the cape pads his experience somewhat, and there’s nowhere else in paradox space he’d want to be, anyway. He keeps his eyes half-lidded, and flicks his tongue out at Dirk, which makes them both laugh. He feels warm and raw and giddy and driven by adrenaline, blessed or cursed or both by the fiery glow of their denizen, who’s still fucking watching.

[ ](https://68.media.tumblr.com/765dc40401a8b926c9723b932795857f/tumblr_inline_o5hi9qsuKe1rq8to9_1280.jpg)

“I hope he’s enjoying the show up there.”

Dirk rubs at Caliborn’s thigh. “Hey, I know I am.”

“Dude, I want you to come inside me.” Caliborn’s cheeks are bright red, although that’s nothing unusual. “I want you to come, so bad.”

“That is also what I want,” Dirk agrees. “That never stopped being a thing.”

“Then don’t stop.” Caliborn shifts his legs and squeezes his thighs around Dirk’s waist, clenching his cloaca, rolling upward to meet Dirk’s thrusting.

Dirk lowers himself to press against Caliborn’s chest, and kisses him, his tongue touching to Caliborn’s forked one. They’re both gross, and smell and taste like snake ass. He doesn’t care. He’s in fucking love.

Dirk takes a page from the bard (but not the clown, not at the moment anyway) and ramps up his efforts to pound Caliborn’s flesh—or just his vent, really. There’s no point in being shy anymore, although they remain tidally locked together, the only two cognizant of the severe injustice of the universe’s sham trial. They’re the two who know the truth and can fix all of this shit, in cahoots against everyone else, to the end. And it’s with that confidence, with that self-satisfied assurance of being up his own ass as well as Caliborn’s, that Dirk kisses him hard and comes hard.

Caliborn holds Dirk’s face with filthy hands and kisses him back, on his mouth, on his cheeks, on his forehead. He throws his arms over Dirk’s shoulders to keep him close, with his thighs in a vicegrip around Dirk’s waist.

“Don’t leave me,” he begs.

“As fucking if.” Dirk continues kissing him, running his tongue over Caliborn’s teeth, then settles his head against Caliborn’s shoulder, completely spent, as Caliborn pets his hair.

They hold each other securely, and ride out the afterglow in the warmth and brightness of the subterranean lair, until they’re slipping into something approximating sleep from their mutual exhaustion. Their senses are overwhelmed with the nearness of each other, aware of little else but shared space and bone-tiredness and the well-fucked soreness of holding on too tightly for too long.

They’re aware of nothing else, until Yaldabaoth floods the room with light and collapses the cavern on top of them, and they’re suddenly aware that their lives are constructed of rendered triangles, all the way down, and always already have been.

When everyone else can figure it out, too, they'll be set to win once and for all.

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
> [](http://elendraug.tumblr.com/post/142919558551/so-i-put-this-together-for-that-one-fic-i-wrote)  
>   
> 


End file.
